


Adrift on Ebony Wings

by MYuzuki



Category: Cursed (2020), Cursed (Netflix Original Series), Cursed (TV 2020), Cursed (TV Show)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, no official fandom tags yet so please excuse sloppy tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 10:14:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25469128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MYuzuki/pseuds/MYuzuki
Summary: As one of the last of the Ravenkin, Branwen has done her best to avoid the latest bloody conflict that has broken out between the Fey and the humans. She has an obligation to stay alive, after all, a duty to the memory of her people that she can’t fulfill if she gets herself killed. Because who will remember them and speak for them if she, one of the last of the flock, perishes?Getting involved in the fight against the Red Paladins is asking for trouble, and Branwen has had enough of that for a lifetime. As such, she’s content to focus on her own survival and nothing more, determined to mind her own business and not get dragged into a tangled mess of kings, queens, magic, and politics.But Fate and the Hidden have other ideas, and when she finds herself on the bank of a frigid lake right as a young woman comes plunging into the water from the waterfall high above, her skin pale and her armor pierced with arrows, Branwen has no choice but to act.
Relationships: Lancelot & Squirrel, The Weeping Monk & Squirrel, maybe eventual Lancelot/OC but I honestly have not decided yet
Comments: 18
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so there are totally other stories that I should be working on right now, but I binged all of Cursed in one sitting the other day and now I have too many fic ideas pinging around in my head so here we are. *jazz hands*
> 
> Anyway, I have other ficlets planned for this fandom (ones that don’t have an OC main character and instead focus exclusively on the characters we already know and love) but they’re still in the brainstorming stages so. Yeah. You guys get this instead for the moment. ^_^; Enjoy!

**Chapter 1**

* * *

The last thing Nimue remembers is pain, and falling.

One moment she'd been crossing that bridge with Morgana, trying to help drag Merlin to safety.

(Trying to help drag _her father_ to safety, and that's still something she can't wrap her mind around, that her true father is _Merlin the Magician_ of all people, rather than the man she'd grown up calling Papa, the man who'd called her cursed and vanished into the night, leaving her and her mother alone among the other Sky Folk.)

The next moment, she'd taken two arrows to the chest and gone tumbling off the thin stone bridge, the sword she'd fought so hard to keep clattering from her grasp as she dangled over a waterfall so high that she can't see the bottom of it.

She remembers clutching at Merlin's hand as he lunged to catch her, as he tried to to halt her fall. Remembers calling him Father for the first time, remembers him crying out in despair as her hand slips from his and she plummets down, down, down.

Then she impacts the water, and knows only darkness.

* * *

Branwen isn't happy to be so close to the fighting that's broken out between the Red Paladins and the Fey resistance; she's done her very best to avoid the brutal and bloody battles that have ravaged the countryside these last few months, because she wants absolutely nothing to do with power-hungry human kings or religious zealots that kill everything they don't understand. She doesn't even want anything to do with the Fey who are fighting for the survival of all their races, large and small.

After all, playing the hero is what got her sisters killed all those years ago, what got her mother killed before that. They had tried to do what was right, to stand up for the downtrodden, and had gotten killed for it, betrayed and slaughtered and forgotten as if nothing they had done mattered.

They had been heroes, and that had gotten them killed, and she'd been left all alone. Without a family, without a flock, just one lone Ravenkin in the wilderness.

So no, she's not interested in justice or glory or anything other than her own survival. As the last of her family, she _has_ to survive. To live on, to continue their traditions. To _remember_ , because there's no one else left who can.

Unfortunately, her survival is dependent upon pesky little things like food and water and that means she has to sometimes drift closer to other people than is strictly wise in order to fulfill those basic needs.

Today, it means she has to come away from the little campsite she's had set up in the forest for the last few days to go fishing in a nearby lake. She'd been living off of some rations she'd pilfered off of a Red Paladin supply wagon last week (they'd been so distracted by the flock of ravens she'd summoned to harass them that they hadn't even noticed her sidling up behind their wagon and making off with a bag of supplies) but regrettably she's run out of the last of the food and needs to find another food source.

She just hopes that there are fish in that lake.

She skulks through the forest, slinking between the trees while Talfryn flutters above her, gliding between the tree branches and cawing down to her whenever his sharp avian eyes spot something unusual.

Talfryn, unlike the birds she can call out to with her magic, is always with her. Ever since she'd first found him, a scraggly little fledgling with a broken wing, they've been inseparable. It's gotten her labeled as a witch a time or two, whenever she's dared to venture into a town or village, because what else are suspicious mortals going to think when the see a woman with Fey markings and a raven on her shoulder?

(Needless to say, she had never remained for very long in those towns. They hadn't wanted her there, and she hadn't wanted to stay, always preferring the freedom and relative safety of the wilderness rather than the cluttered confines of a village where everyone stared at her facial markings and called her a monster.)

She and Talfryn reach the shore of the lake quickly enough, and she quickly goes to work on rigging up a rudimentary fishing rod, using a long stick and a bit of twine for the pole and one of the small metallic beads from her hair as a lure for the fish.

It's certainly not the most sophisticated contraption, but it should be sufficient.

She sits on the shore for an indeterminable amount of time, long enough for her legs to start falling asleep even as her shoulders grow stuff from holding the pole for so long. And finally, right when she catches the tell-tale gleam of fish scales in the water, right when that fish is about to approach her lure and thereby make itself her dinner, there's a piercing scream that cuts through the air.

Cuts through the air _from above_ , and Branwen looks up in confusion just in time to see a young woman come plummeting down from the top of the waterfall that feeds the lake (or at least that's where Branwen assumes she comes from; the waterfall is so high up above the lake that it's wreathed in mist and clouds, hidden from sight).

The woman plunges into the lake, impacting the surface of the water with a loud crashing splash and sinking below the surface before Branwen can even begin to process what just happened.

By the time her mind catches up with her instincts, she's already leapt into the water, diving down after the other woman's sinking silhouette while Talfryn circles above, his distressed caws echoing through the air like a battle horn.

 _Don't be a hero_ , she's told herself time and time again, and yet she's never been able to stop herself from interceding whenever she has the misfortune of stumbling upon a situation where someone needs help and only she can provide it.

It's stupid. It's stupid and it's probably going to get her killed someday, once she runs into a problem she can't outsmart or outrun, but she can't seem to help herself. It's almost like when she found Talfryn, abandoned and injured; she can't _not_ help.

Her mother and sisters would be proud, probably, but it just makes Branwen wants to stab herself in the face.

 _I'll drag this woman to shore, get a fire started to keep her warm, and then I"ll be on my way_ , she tells herself sternly as she dives down deeper, deeper, deeper. No need to get involved beyond that; just save the woman from drowning, and then disappear back into the wilderness where no one can find her. Where no one can hurt her.

She finally reaches the woman, and wastes no time in wrapping an arm around her waist and hauling her towards the surface of the water; she tries not to be alarmed by the red tinge in the water, by the two arrows sticking out of the woman's body, but it's difficult. Clearly, this isn't some morose farmers wife who'd pitched herself from the top of the waterfall in some mad fit of desperation or grief; there's a story behind this, and probably not a pretty one.

As she struggles up towards the faint gleam of sunlight, Branwen has a sinking feeling that saving this woman is going to cause her a world of trouble, that to save her now is to get embroiled in something bigger than herself. It would be simpler, perhaps, to jut let go. To let the woman drift back down, until her body is buried in the silt and sand at the bottom of the lake.

It would be the easiest thing to do. The least complicated option.

But it isn't the _right_ thing to do, and maybe it's just the ghosts of her lost loved ones whispering in her ears but Branwen can't bring herself to do anything other than swim towards the surface of the lake and drag the arrow-pierced woman with her.

Talfryn lets out a relieved croak once she breaks the surface, and she'd holler out a reassurance that she's fine but she's too busy gasping for breath. After what feels like an eternity but is probably only a handful of moments, she manages to get both herself and her new acquaintance back to shore.

She spends a moment catching her breath, then quickly flips the woman onto her back so she can fully asses the situation. The woman coughs up some water from the movement, expelling whatever liquid she'd choked on after her fall, but then subsides back into unconsciousness, mumbling incoherently as her eyes flutter beneath her lids.

Branwen waits a moment to see if the woman will regain consciousness but when that clearly isn't going to happen she resumes her hasty inspection.

The first thing she notices (besides the two wicked-looking arrows, of course) is that the woman seems younger than she'd first thought; she'd hadn't realized at the time but now that Branwen can see her features more clearly, unblurred by the murky water, it's clear that this woman is youthful, in the prime of her life.

Of course, it's equally possible that's she's a long-lived Fey and only _looks_ young, not unlike Branwen or any of the other Folk or Kin who have relative immortality coursing through their veins, but Branwen rather doubts it; she can't put her finger on it, but this stranger _feels_ young, more girl than woman, as if she's still growing in who she will become.

Talfryn, apparently finished with his aerial patrol, flutters down from above and croaks at her.

"I need to get those arrows out," Branwen tells him absently as she reaches a hand out to check that the girl is still breathing. "And do something to patch up her wounds." There was no point in saving the girl from drowning, after all, if she just bled out and died anyway.

Talfryn croaks again, a worried sound with a hint of urgency.

“I know, I know, I’ll be quick,” she assures him, chewing on her lower lip as she takes a moment to examine the wounds more closely before getting down to business.

All in all, it's messy, bloody, and filthy work and it takes her longer than she's strictly comfortable with. After all, someone had to have shot those arrows into this girl, which means that it's entirely possible that someone will come looking for her. Sooner rather than later, perhaps, depending on who she was and why they had wanted her dead.

And if Branwen is there when they come looking for the girl, well. That's her in trouble as well, isn't it? They'd likely try to kill her as well, for rendering aid to their target.

That doesn't stop her, though, just makes her work faster. Eventually, after her fingers are slick with blood and her brow damp with sweat, it's over: the arrows have been removed, and the wounds left behind have been tended as well as can be expected given Branwen's limited supplies.

Of course, that leaves the question of What Next.

Part of Branwen wants to just leave. Get up and go, and leave the girl to fend for herself. Branwen has already done more than most people would, after all. Dove in, saved the girl from drowning, tended to her wounds.

There's no reason for her to stay here, no obligation to stick around and offer any more help than she's already given.

 _Don't be a hero_ , she's told herself, time and time and time again.

 _And yet here I am anyway_ , she thinks irritably, and is almost positive that her sisters are laughing at her from beyond the Veil.

With a disgruntled sigh, she scrambles to her feet, and then scoops up the girl from the ground as Talfryn takes flight once more, launching up off the ground with a chattering croak.

She vanishes back into the forest without a backward glance, the girl cradled carefully in her arms as Talfryn wheels overhead once more, his keen eyes scanning for threats as she hurries through the trees; the only remnants of her presence on the shore are the makeshift fishing rod, two broken arrow shafts, a small patch of blood on the ground, and one single dark feather that had fallen from her hair during the commotion.

And even if someone does stumble upon this particular patch of shoreline and find evidence of her having been there, she's confident that she and her temporary companion will be long gone by then.

* * *

Squirrel doesn't know what to think of the Weeping Monk anymore.

( _Lancelot_ , he reminds himself. _He says his name is Lancelot._

It's an adjustment, when he's grown so used to calling the man by his title, by the name that all the other Fey had whispered with such fear and hate.

But Squirrel is quick to adapt; it's how he's made it this far, it's how he's survived, and he's determined to keep that up. It's strange, to be astride a horse with someone who was an enemy just the day before, and even stranger to think about how that enemy had so suddenly changed sides, but. Well.

Squirrel can adapt. He has to. It's a strange world, after all, and a brutal one; if he's learned nothing else during the course of his short life, he's learned that. He needs to be quick and clever and know when to adapt.

So. Lancelot. The Weeping Monk's name is Lancelot. And if what those soldiers in the camp had said was true, Lancelot was Fey.

Squirrel can work with that.)

"Where are we going?" Squirrel asks now, twisting in his seat impatiently because he's only ridden a horse a few times and never for this long; his feet are starting to fall asleep!

The Weeping Monk's - _Lancelot's_ \- hands seem to grab Squirrel's shoulders automatically right as he almost squirms his way right off the horse on accident, carefully (if somewhat awkwardly) adjusting his position so that neither one of them go toppling to the muddy ground. "I don't know," he says at last, after a long moment of silence that seems as if it will drag on forever. "Away," he adds on, almost as an afterthought.

 _Away from the Red Paladins_ , he doesn't say, but Squirrel hears it anyway, in the way his soft voice darkens with something heavy and bitter.

Part of Squirrel wants to ask, wants to poke and prod at the Weeping Monk and demand an explanation for why he'd changed sides, why he'd saved Squirrel (it's something he's _desperate_ to ask, actually, because why _him_. Why save Squirrel, why not save Gawain or any of the others, why only turn on the Red Paladins _now_ ), but even though the curiosity and need to know are burning inside of him like hot coals, he keeps the questions trapped behind his teeth.

Because he's young, but he's not an idiot. Now's not a good time to be asking those questions. Lancelot, for all his skill and strength, is injured, and badly. He'd killed those Paladins in the camp to save Squirrel but he'd gotten hurt doing it; Squirrel had _seen_ it, had seen Lancelot get cut and stabbed and _smacked in the face with a mace_ , and yet here he is. With Squirrel. On a horse.

( _On a horse named Goliath_ , some helpful part of Squirrel's mind supplies, dredging up a snippet of memory from a dark forest night that feels like a lifetime ago, back when the Weeping Monk had viewed him only as bait rather than as someone to protect.)

So no, now's not a good time to harass his maybe-saviour with the thousand questions he has corralled on the tip of his tongue, even if the need to ask is so great that it's making Squirrel fidget.

There is one question that he feels he has to ask, though, especially when the coppery tang of blood in the air grows too strong for him to ignore. "How badly are you hurt?" he asks, craning his head around to look at the man behind him.

Lancelot doesn't meet his gaze, eyes focused on the trail ahead of them as he steers Goliath around a bramble bush that's obstructing part of the path. "Does it matter?" he asks, and his tone is so disinterested that is makes Squirrel's mouth twist down into a frown.

"Of course it matters," he says, scowling, and is rewarded with a bemused look in response. "What if you're so badly hurt that you fall off the horse? Or just drop dead all of a sudden!"

The earns him a small huff, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, and something that might be bitter amusement crosses Lancelot's face, there and gone again too fast for Squirrel to be certain he'd even seen it. "I'll survive this, Percival, don't worry." And then, almost too low for Squirrel to hear, "I've survived worse."

Squirrel's scowl intensifies, although whether it's at the use of his birth name or that second muttered bit he doesn't know. "I'm not worried," he grumbles after a moment, just the tiniest bit defensive because he's _not._ He just thinks that it would be stupid for Lancelot to die now, after all the effort Squirrel had put in to get him to get on the horse so they could escape together. That's all. Being _worried_ has nothing to do with it. "And don't call me Percival," he adds.

"It's your name," Lancelot reminds him.

"And I told you before, I don't like it," he snaps, and maybe it's childish of him but he crosses his arms with an angry little 'hmph' and glares down at Goliath's mane, not saying another word.

This time the huff of breath that comes is _definitely_ one of reluctant amusement, as if Lancelot wants to laugh but doesn't remember how. "It's still your name," he replies, just as he had before, and that's that.

Squirrel grumbles some more under his breath, but doesn't argue the point any further, and they ride on in silence until night falls.


	2. Chapter 2

"I'm hungry," Squirrel says, after the sun has set and they've ridden so far in the darkness that he has no idea where they are beyond somewhere on the outskirts of a forest.

Lancelot gives a low hum of acknowledgment, but doesn't otherwise respond for a moment, seeming to need to marshal his thoughts. "There might be something in the saddlebags," eh says at last. "Some dried meat, perhaps some fruit."

"Let's stop for the night, then," Squirrel suggests, stomach already growling at even the thought of food. "We can eat something, get some rest. You look like you could use some rest," he adds, looking over his shoulder at the older Fey. "You look _terrible_."

The Weeping Monk's blood-streaked face does something complicated, like he isn't sure whether to smile or grimace. "I'll be fine," is all he says, although there's an undertone to his voice that Squirrel can't quite parse.

"Well, _I'm_ tired and hungry, " Squirrel retorts, because he's reasonably certain that Lancelot will stop for him, if not for himself. "Let's stop for the night."

A long, _long_ pause as Lancelot seems to consider this. "…Very well," he says at last, the words almost a sigh. "We've come far enough away from the Paladin camp. A brief rest should be safe enough."

They dismount from Goliath, Lancelot doing so more slowly on account of his injuries, and before long Squirrel is digging through the saddlebags while Lancelot does a quick sweep of their immediate area to make sure there are no imminent threats.

(Squirrel thinks he's being paranoid, but he's not going to say anything; Lancelot's older than he is, after all, and presumably know a bit more about survival than Squirrel, so he leaves the other Fey to it while he sorts through their meager assortment of supplies.)

"There's oats for the horse," he says when Lancelot returns from his perimeter check (and Squirrel would find is exceedingly strange that the Weeping Monk of all people would bother to bring proper oats along for his horse, but Lancelot is proving to be a much more complicated person than Squirrel would have guessed). "And some dried meat. Oh, and some dried fruit," he adds with a happy exclamation, lifting the little bag of shriveled apple slices into the air with a grin.

That grin promptly drops right off his face when a raven swoops down out of nowhere and snatches the bag from his outstretched hand; it gives a short croak and then vanishes into the trees, swallowed up by the shadows of nightfall.

Squirrel is up and chasing after it before he even thinks about it. "Hey, that's not yours! Bring it back, you stupid bird!"

He dimly hears Lancelot calling after him, shouting _Percival, come back_ as he follows after him, but he doesn't slow his gait, determined to catch the bird and get their fruit back.

Another caw comes from further ahead, the sound echoing strangely off the trees until it almost sounds as if the thing is laughing at him.

 _Stupid bird_ , he thinks again, and redoubles his speed.

* * *

Nimue's return to consciousness is a groggy and thoroughly confusing experience; she spends an indeterminable amount of time trying to claw her way out of the darkness that's blanketing her mind, sifting through the disjointed memories that are clamoring for her attention.

("Iris?" she'd asked, baffled and disbelieving as the young girl she'd met so briefly at the convent had fired arrow after arrow at her, face cold and eyes full of hate.)

She remembers pain, sharp and piercing, and a heart-stopping surge of terror as she'd dangled over the edge of that bridge.

And she remembers falling, falling, falling.

And then nothing.

Given all of that, she thinks that she's entitled to some confusion and disorientation, _and_ to some alarm when she opens her eyes in the middle of an unfamiliar forest clearing to see a complete and total stranger looming over her with a severe expression.

So she does what any sane young woman would do in a similar situation, and punches the stranger in the face.

(The motion causes a hot lance of pain to go stabbing through her shoulders and upper body, and she recalls once more the arrows that had torn through her flesh.)

The other person goes reeling back with a startled cry, once hand clutching at their nose, and Nimue realizes somewhat belatedly that the stranger is a woman.

(And a Fey woman at that, assuming of course that the black marks framing her eyes and flaring out across her skin like wings are natural and not a strange cosmetic choice.)

"See if I ever save _your_ life again," the woman says crankily, voice slightly muffled as she gingerly runs her fingers over the bridge of her nose.

 _Save my life?_ "Wait," Nimue says, throat scratching as she speaks, the words tasting like blood and stale water, "what do you-"

There's suddenly the raucous sound of a raven's cry that drowns out the rest of her words, followed immediately by a familiar voice hollering out, "Bring that back, you stupid bird!"

Then Squirrel bursts into the forest clearing, apparently in pursuit of the raven that goes soaring right past Nimue before vanishing into the forest canopy once more, a small canvas bag clutched in its talons.

"Squirrel?" she whispers, voice cracking.

The boy's head whips around, his eyes wide as he stares at her. "Nimue!" he exclaims, rushing forward excitedly only to catch sight of the strange dark-haired woman lurking nearby, blood dripping down her lips and chin.

It occurs to Nimue, just half a moment too late, what this must look like to Squirrel, with Nimue sprawled on the ground with hands raised, as if warding off an attacker.

"Squirrel, wait-" she says, but it's already too late.

"Get away from her," the boy snarls, snatching a rock up off the ground and hurling it at the other woman with all his strength.

The woman makes a sound that's somewhere between a muffled curse and a squawk of indignation, ducking under the rock before springing to her feet and leaping up into the closest tree.

Before Nimue can even fully process the idea of someone _fleeing up a tree_ , someone else races into the clearing, seemingly in pursuit of Squirrel, and for one terrible moment it feels like Nimue's heart is going to burst right out of her chest from anger and fear.

"What is _he_ doing here," she snarls, hands instinctively reaching for a sword she no longer possesses.

Squirrel's gaze tears away from the dark-haired woman and he quickly scrambles to stand between Nimue and the Weeping Monk. "Wait, wait, it's alright," he says hastily, clutching at her shoulder, eyes pleading. "He's not with the Paladins anymore, he saved me from their camp. His name is Lancelot," he adds, as if this particular tidbit of information is of paramount importance.

Nimue gives Squirrel the extremely dubious look his statement deserves, accompanied by a very suspicious look directed at the subject of their conversation. She still remembers, after all, that horrible day when their village burned, still remembers the tall figure in the dark cloak who'd helped the Red Paladins destroy the world she'd grown up in.

(It's a bitter memory, tinged with grief and guilt in equal measure because most of the other Sky Folk had disliked her, had viewed her with wariness and hostility, and she'd disliked them in turn.

But she hadn't wanted any of them _dead_.)

"He saved me," Squirrel repeats firmly, a note of finality in his tone, something that she's not accustomed to hearing from her much younger friend.

Nimue opens her mouth, reconsiders what she'd been about to say, and sighs. "I can't believe you're here," she says instead, pulling him into a tight hug despite the deep, twisting ache in her shoulder. "You're not hurt?"

Squirrel returns the hug, thin arms wrapping around her for a moment before he pulls away. "I'm alright," he tells her. "Just hungry," he adds, mouth twisting down into an adorable little scowl. "We were stopping to eat something and rest a bit, but then that stupid bird stole the fruit."

"Bird?" Nimue echoes, briefly confused until the sudden caw of a raven reminds her of how Squirrel had come barreling into the forest clearing in the first place. "Ah."

The bird in question reappears, drifting down from above with a croak before wheeling around and perching on the same tree branch that the dark-haired woman is balanced on; it's dark out now, the sun long set and shadows thick in the air, but Nimue thinks she can catch a glimpse of burlap cloth clutched within the bird's talons.

"You stole their food?" the woman asks, seemingly addressing the bird, then sighs when the raven croaks in response. "Give it back."

The raven makes a peculiar chittering sound, feathers fluffing up.

The woman makes a noise of exasperation. "The boy is hungry," she says flatly. "Give it back."

The bird grumbles some more but drops the little burlap satchel from its talons; the little bag falls down from the tree and lands in a pile of discolored leaves.

Squirrel wastes no time in scurrying over and snatching up the satchel of dried fruit. Then he cranes his head pack, peering up at the woman with narrowed eyes. "Who are _you_ , anyway?" he asks, voice thick with suspicion. "What were you doing to Nimue?"

"I was checking to make sure she was still breathing," the woman replies. "Don't worry," she adds, tone dust-dry as she wipes at a smear of blood from her broken nose, "it's not something that will get a repeat performance."

"Wait," Squirrel says, brow scrunching up in confusion, "you were trying to help her?"

"I already _have_ helped her," the woman replies, sounding irritated. "For all the good it's done me," she grumbles. "Hit in the face and treed by a child," she mutters under her breath. "Unbelievable."

The raven at her side gives a raucous series of caws that go up and down in pitch, and the woman gives an annoyed huff.

"Don't you dare laugh at me," she tells it. "It's at least half your fault."

The bird gives a chattering grumble, but subsides.

Nimue, meanwhile, is still mentally scrambling to assemble the jumbled puzzle pieces of the situation, slotting them into place in her mind's eyes with the hope that it'll all form into a coherent picture at some point so she can understand _what by the gods is happening_.

Thankfully, her shoulder chooses that moment to twinge once more, reminding her exactly why is hurts in the first place. Which in turn reminds her that she should be very grateful she's alive to feel that hurt. And her being alive in the first place means…

"You pulled me from the water," she says slowly, looking up at the woman as realization trickles in. "After I fell."

The woman tips her head in acknowledgement, starlight catching on the small silver beads that are scattered throughout her hair. "I did."

"Why?" Nimue asks.

"Seemed like a good idea at the time," is the woman's immediate response, although her tone of voice seems to suggest that she no longer thinks it was such a good idea.

Nimue opens her mouth to ask another question (to ask approximately a _hundred_ more questions, actually, because she has no idea where she is or who this woman is or what happened to Morgana and Merlin or even how long it's been since that fateful fall from the bridge), but a sudden bone-chilling howl cuts through the still night air, slicing through the ambient noise of the forest like a blade and driving all else to silence.

Squirrel gives a startled jump, face paling. "Wolves," he whispers, taking a hesitant step backwards, away from the surrounding darkness of the forest and towards the Weeping Monk.

Nimue recalls, then, the fact that her clothes are soaked in blood from the arrow wounds, and that wolves can scent injured prey from great distances.

She reaches once more for her sword, for _the_ sword, only to curse under her breath when her fingers close around empty air, the loss of the blade crashing into her all over again. And that frustration comes along with a jolt of fear as more howls begin to echo fro amidst the trees, because she's not in any condition to fight off ravenous wolves barehanded, and her mind is in such a disoriented muddle that she's not confident she can wield her magic successfully, either.

Then, before she can even really begin to formulate a plan (to her great shame and consternation, it would likely involve relying on the Weeping Monk of all people for assistance, because she is injured and without a weapon while he has already drawn a sword), the stranger leaps down from her tree in one smooth motion, hair flaring out around her as she lands in a crouch.

"Talfryn, go," the woman says as she rises up off the ground, one hand resting lightly on the dagger sheathed at her hip, and the raven croaks in reply, vaulting off of the branch and swooping around the clearing once before vanishing into the night in the direction of the howls.

"What's it going to do?" Squirrel asks, shuffling backwards towards Nimue and the Weeping Monk, the little bag of dried fruit clutched in white-knuckled hands.

" _He_ is going to distract them," the woman replies. " He'll harass them and Lead them on a merry chase, " she goes on, tilting her head in an oddly avian motion, as if listening to a sound only she can hear. "Until they are far from here and forget all about us."

The sounds of harsh caws reaches them a moment later, accompanied by a few faint yelps and then some growls. The racket increases in volume briefly before growing fainter and fainter as the bird presumably leads the wolf pack away, until finally the forest grows still and silent again, the only noise coming from the hesitant chirps of the crickets as they resume their songs.

Several more moments pass in tense silence, and then the raven returns, swooping in on silent wings to alight on the woman's shoulder.

She scratches the creature's beak lightly, a faint smile quirking up her lips and making her fierce countenance soften slightly. "There's that sorted, then," she murmurs, sounding pleased. "Good work."

The raven -Talfryn, Nimue remembers the woman calling it- gives a pleased little chirp, settling himself more comfortably on her shoulder.

"Who _are_ you?" Squirrel blurts out then, clearly unable to hold his peace in any longer.

The woman glances over at him, her gaze drifting over to the Weeping Monk as he strides across the clearing to hover protectively behind the boy. Then finally her eyes, a pale gray that contrasts so sharply with the pitch-black markings around her eyes that they almost seem to shine like silver in the darkness, land on Nimue.

Nimue, who apparently owes this woman her life.

(Nimue isn't sure how she feels about that. She's grateful to this woman, of course, because she doesn't want to die. But she also doesn't feel comfortable with the thought of being indebted to anyone. Especially not now, when she needs to focus on finding Morgana and Merlin, and getting her sword back so she can be the leader that her people so desperately need.)

"My name is Branwen," the other woman says at last, then glances at the bird on her shoulder. "And you've already met Talfryn."

"He stole our fruit," Squirrel replies, gaze narrowed into a glare as he peers at the raven.

"Yes, and he's very sorry about that," Branwen replies, slanting a severe look at the culprit. "Aren't you?"

The bird gives a low croak and nips at one of the beads in his owner's hair.

Branwen just sighs, looking as if she very much regrets her recent life choices.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Branwen tries (and fails) to remove herself from the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, everyone! A huge thank you to everyone for all of the great feedback this story has gotten so far! I'm glad you're all liking Branwen, and I hope you enjoy this latest chapter! It's shorter than the previous chapters but important because it touches on some of Branwen's backstory. Hope you like it! ;D

**Chapter 3**

* * *

Branwen is fairly certain that she must have offended some god or goddess at some point; nothing else explains her spectacularly rotten luck when it comes to the situation she seems to have gotten herself involved in.

"Wait, you mean that you're _Merlin the Magician's_ daughter?" Branwen asks, a note of skepticism creeping into her tone despite her best efforts to bury it. " _You_?"

(Because even Branwen, with her largely solitary existence, has heard of Merlin. Her mother had spoken of him a time or two, and even ignoring that the man has a reputation that stretches back centuries. And try as she might, throwing a concept like 'fatherhood into the mix of what she knows of him just…boggles the mind, really.)

Nimue, meanwhile, gives her a vaguely affronted look. "Yes, _me_ ," she replies, just the tiniest bit defensively. "Anyway, as I was saying, I need to find my father and reclaim my sword so that I can protect and lead our people."

"Huh." Branwen fiddles with the dried apple slice that she's been nibbling on during the last bit of Nimue's tale, peripherally aware of the strange man Lancelot and the young boy (Squirrel, she thinks Nimue had called him, although why the boy is named after a forest rodent is beyond her) on the other side of the campfire having a hushed debate over whether to give their horse some of the apple slices or just feed him oats. "Well, good luck with that, then," she says to Nimue after a moment of consideration, popping the rest of the apple slice into her mouth as she moves to stand.

"Wh-" Nimue's eyes go almost comically wide. "Wait, you're just going to leave? Just like that?"

Branwen snaps her fingers to summon Talfryn from his perch in the forest canopy above them before glancing back over at Nimue in bemusement. "I've already saved your life," she reminds the other girl, looking pointedly at the blood-soaked tears in her clothing. "What more do you want from me?"

"I don't- You just-" Nimue stammers for a moment, bewildered and apparently flustered by her own bewilderment. "You're Fey, aren't you?" she asks at last, her tone somewhere between accusatory and pleading.

Branwen gives Nimue the judgmental look such a question deserves, because _obviously_ she's Fey. She swallows down the sarcastic response she wants to give, though, settling instead for the more neutral, "I am."

"Well, then you _have_ to help me," Nimue insists, hands clenching into fists in her lap.

Branwen snorts. "No," she says dryly, "I really don't." Talfryn alights on her shoulder then and gives a low croak, inquisitive and chiding all at once, and she rolls her eyes. "I don't _have_ to do anything," she tells him firmly, because she's hardy going to be talked into a mad quest by her avian companion.

(Not _this_ time, at least. Talfryn's coaxed her into troublesome situations once or twice before and while she doesn't mind overmuch for the most part, she draws the line at getting dragged into a mess like _this_.

Cursed swords, would-be Queens, and endless opportunities to get killed?

No, she's quite fine without any of that insanity in her life, thank you very much.)

"Good luck," she tells Nimue again, and turns to go.

She makes it five steps before the boy's voice -Squirrel's voice- rings out in the night, halting her in her tracks.

"Why won't you help us?" he calls out, sounding almost angry. "If you really are Fey, then Nimue is your queen, too. That means you're supposed to help her when she needs it!"

"Your sense of duty is commendable, child," she says with a sigh, dragging a hand through her hair and feeling impossibly tired, "but I have no interest in fighting for or against _any_ monarch. Whether it's a Fey Queen or a human king makes little difference to me. I don't want to be involved in such things."

"Why not?" the boy demands, face scrunching up in a fierce scowl that is, quite frankly, adorable.

Branwen huffs out a short laugh despite herself, the sound coming out more bitter than amused. "Because I don't want to die," she says matter-of-factly, thinking of her mother and her sisters, of their honorable lives and their inglorious deaths.

(She thinks of being a child alone, barely more than a fledgling herself by her people's standards at the time, crouching in the snow and shrieking over her eldest sister's decapitated body.

She thinks of that horrible winter night, of weeping and wailing and then screaming even louder when she'd seen her eldest sister's head in a snow bank farther down the trail, long dark hair matted with blood and ice as her eyes had stared sightlessly at the harvest moon hanging in the sky above.

 _This is what honor reaps_ , had been carved into the charred remains of the supply wagon her sister had been escorting for some noble lord who had been trying to broker "an honorable peace" between his fiefdom and the local Fey population living on his lands.

To this day, Branwen isn't sure who specifically killed her sister, but she supposes that it doesn't really matter in the end. Whether it was one of the lord's enemies, one of her sister's enemies, a vagabond who'd just hated the Fey and didn't want peace…it didn't matter _whose_ hand had wielded the blade, because her sister was just as dead regardless.

Aerwyn had been the first of Branwen's sisters to be slain, ruthlessly slaughtered because of her generous heart, but she hadn't been the last and now there's only Branwen left and she _can't_.

She can't fall into the same trap that ensnared her sisters, and her mother before them.

She's the last of her family, the last of her flock. If she dies, that's it; there will be no one left to remember their history, their traditions. No one left who will remember how to find their ancestral sanctuaries, or how to leave offerings to their patron goddesses at the appropriate times.

No one left who will remember that her mother used to greet every new day with a song on her lips for her friends and a dagger in her hand for enemies. No one left who will remember that Aerwyn had once spent two days straight nursing a sickly kitten back to health despite claiming to hate cats, or that Kaelynn had once danced barefoot across a frozen lake to impress a sheepherder's daughter, or that Rhoswyn had once climbed to the top of a tree during a lightning storm on a dare.

If she dies, no one will remember them; they'll be forgotten as if they had never existed in the first place.

She can't let that happen.)

"I'm sorry," she says now, and isn't sure _who_ , exactly, she's apologizing to. Squirrel, perhaps, whose entire face crumples in disappointment, as if he'd truly thought his words would sway her. Or maybe she's apologizing to Nimue, who truly _does_ seem to need all the help she can get, injured and bedraggled and desperate as she is.

Or perhaps she's apologizing to her sisters and mother, who had always fought for those who couldn't fight for themselves, who had always done the right ting regardless of personal risk. Who had always believed in the goodness of other people, even if those people didn't deserve their faith.

Talfryn, still on her shoulder, turns his head and burrows his beak into her hair, keening softly.

"I'm not like them," she whispers to him, voice so low that it's practically inaudible even to her own keen ears. "I'm not a hero."

Her companion nips at her earlobe, a clear chastisement, and she sucks in a deep breath, heart pounding.

 _If you walk away now_ , a voice says at the back of her mind, _you will regret it forever._

(It sounds like her mother's voice.)

Nimue, as if sensing her indecision, scrambles to her feet with a determined expression. "Stay," she says, tone fierce and plaintive all at once. "Help us. _Please_."

(Branwen very deliberately does not look over at either Squirrel or Lancelot; she can feels their gazes drilling into the side of her head, and can't quite bring herself to meet their eyes.

 _Your sisters would help them_ , the voice says, and it makes Branwen's heart stutter in her chest.

 _Stupid conscience_ , she thinks irritably, but no amount of long-suffering irritation will change the truth of the words it's throwing at her.

Her sisters _would_ help them. Without hesitation.)

Branwen bites her lip so hard that she tastes blood, the tang of salt and copper sour on her tongue as she swallows against the sudden lump in her throat. "…Fine," she says at last, and tries to quell the uneasy feeling of anxiety that's churning in her gut. "But only until you get that thrice-damned sword of yours back," she adds sternly, scowling. "After that, you're on your own."

Nimue and Squirrel break into matching grins, bright and relieved, and Branwen just sighs, slumping back down onto the ground. "Pass me another apple slice?" she asks no one in particular.

Lancelot wordlessly hands one over, his expression largely inscrutable but with a hint of tired amusement in his gaze.

Branwen makes a face at him and stuffs the entire apple slice into her mouth, forestalling any further

conversation.

 _This is such a bad idea_ , she thinks, watching idly as Nimue and Squirrel put their heads together and begin hashing out their next step.

But she's already committed herself to helping them, and it's not a decision to she take back; all she can do now is see it through to the end.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you're all enjoying the story so far!
> 
> If anyone’s curious about how I personally envision Branwen’s facial markings, there are a couple Pinterest posts that I personally really like [here](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/65302263324236703/) and [here](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/525302744017686113/). Of course, Googling “raven wing eye makeup” also turns up a lot of other great pictures, too, and while I will describe her markings during the course of the narrative, the extent and specifics of them are somewhat open to interpretation. ;D
> 
> Additionally, this post [here](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/453174781240086268/) is pretty much what I picture her hairstyle as, only Branwen's hair is black, not blonde. :)


End file.
